Merivale of the Yard
by AdidasandPie
Summary: "...my friend, Merivale of the Yard,"-SHOS. Inspector Merivale earns his place in Sherlock Holmes's list of friends when Watson gets in a spot of trouble. No slash.


_A/N: "…my friend, Merivale of the Yard,…" –SHOS_

_If Holmes says he has no friends but Watson, as he does in FIVE, he wouldn't nonchalantly throw around the title. There must be a good reason behind his calling this never-before-mentioned Inspector a "friend"._

"I'm sorry, sir, but we simply cannot act without a warrant!"

"We will not be _able_ to act if you do not procure one in a timely manner!"

"Mr. Holmes, I implore you to calm down!"

I nearly snapped an offensive retort back at the Inspector, but held my tongue. Yelling would not speed up the legal formalities. But by Jove, if they were not completed soon I would go on my own, warrant or no warrant.

What a fool I had been! This blundering of mine might very well cost my only friend his life.

I began to pace again, ignoring the exasperated Inspector Bradstreet, who heaved a sigh and sat heavily in his chair.

It was a perfectly simple case gone wrong- a murder the Yard had asked me to look at. Sir Robert Horrigan of Bournemouth*, Dorset was found dead from a gunshot wound to the head in his rooms by his wife and her brother. The scene of the crime was practically evidence-less, a point that excited me and dismayed the Yard to no end. I made an examination of the room and came on what I saw as the essential points. The threads began to weave together nicely. All my leads had pointed to a member of Sir Horrigan's club, a dubious, jealous sort of fellow Horrigan played cards with. Bradstreet had thought otherwise, electing to follow a completely erroneous trail of false leads to Horrigan's tailor. Admittedly, my own conclusions were erroneous as well.

Sir Horrigan's brother-in-law, Calvin Pyre, who lived with Horrigan and his sister, had been a great help to us in our investigation. His first hand discovery of Sir Horrigan's body made him a vital witness in my investigation. It also seemed his relationship with Sir Horrigan was a friendly one, that he might give me some sort of clue as to why this member of Horrigan's club would want him dead.

He had been eager and amiable from the start, and invaluable in our interrogations, unlike his hysterical sister. He'd answered all my inquiries in a calm and smooth manner, seemingly unaffected by the whole affair. How blind I had been!

Pyre became somewhat of an accomplice of ours during the investigation. Only a few hours ago I had sent Watson to investigate a lead with him in Bournemouth while I inquired of the club member in London.

I'd sent them to look over Horrigan's will and ascertain if there was any person who would benefit from his death. Watson sent me a telegram not long ago that they were to return to Pyre's club for some refreshment before coming back to London. A second missive arrived minutes after the first, stating that Horrigan's will contained a princely sum for Pyre. I assumed that this second telegram was sent without Pyre's knowledge. That was staunch Watson; he'd done very well to send it secretly to me.

My inquiries in London had proved unsuccessful and my theories unorganized, so I began to think on Pyre's involvement in the case. The more I thought about the oddities he had committed the more my growing hypothesis lined up with fact and I came on a shocking realization.

Pyre was the murderer. It fit perfectly- why had I not seen it before? He had murdered his brother-in-law and masterfully left a trail of convincing false clues. That he was the one of the first to discover the body was a telling fact in itself. I had been so fixated on my own club member lead that I had completely overlooked the real culprit.

Watson was now alone with the man and without his revolver. Pyre knew that Watson, and by extent I, had seen the will. He was aware that we knew of his large inheritance. He was certain to realize (if he hadn't already) that I knew he was the killer, a notion that bode very badly for my friend.

I could not stand the wait much longer- I would not allow Watson to die because it took too long to get a piece of paper signed.

The office door opened suddenly and the fluster-faced, still wet-behind-the-ears Junior Inspector under Bradstreet on this case burst in.

"Jones needs you in the morgue right away, sir." He panted.

I made to throw my hands up in the air at yet another delay in the process but caught myself at the last moment and clenched my fists into my pockets.

Bradstreet stood, and after consulting the young fellow for a few moments, left the room in a bustle.

I glared a hole into the carpet for a few moments after the door slammed shut before the Junior Inspector interrupted me.

"I've a cab waiting, Mr. Holmes."

I looked up, confused. The lad- what was his name-Marvale? – looked at me encouragingly, motioning for me to stand up. "I've a cab waiting to take you where you need to go, Mr. Holmes." He repeated.

I was not about to argue with this sentiments and so followed the lad out of the office and to the front of the yard where a carriage and horse waited. The Inspector got in after me, taking the seat adjacent to mine.

"I hope you know where to go, Mr. Holmes?"

I nodded, thanking my providential luck of earlier today. After finding nothing productive from the club-member lead and coming to the conclusion that Pyre was the felon, I'd scoured our rooms at Baker Street for any clues he'd unintentionally left behind. To my abject delight, I happened across his calling card, gaudily engraved:

CALVIN N. PYRE

BOURNEMOUTH CYCLE WORKS

CHAMPION MARKSMAN OF THE DORSET CLUB

The forgotten card gave me the morbid possible premises of Watson's murder and thus, our destination. I called up to the cabbie to take us to Charing Cross Station so we might catch the 2:15 to Dorset. I could only hope that Watson would keep himself aware until I arrived.

I looked up at the Inspector. "You do realize that a warrant is required for such an action, Inspector…?"

"Merivale." He answered. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I do. But while the _Yard_ can't act without a warrant, you _can_, being a private citizen. Besides, we all like the doctor down at the Yard, sir, and I wouldn't like to see him dead on account of some paperwork. "

I shot him a look of gratitude that I hoped conveyed more than my words.

"If you don't mind me asking," Merivale began, "What do you think is going to happen?"

I rummaged in my pocket, pulling out the calling card and handing it to the Inspector. "Pyre thinks Watson knows too much about the case and his involvement in it."

"Pyre?" Merivale asked. "Why would he mind?"

"He's the murderer."

Merivale visibly whitened, gulping. "But Inspector Bradstreet was convinced that Sir Horrigan's tailor…"

I almost laughed had the situation not been so dire. "Dear Bradstreet is not always correct, my boy."

Merivale raised his eyebrows. "What are they going to do with Doctor Watson?"

"Attempt to kill him, if I am not mistaken." I answered. "It is convenient that Pyre is an excellent marksman at a shooting club where a death could easily be attributed to accident."

Here we arrived at Charing Cross, cutting off any chance Merivale had at responding to this morbid statement. We were barely in time for the 2:15, jumping on just as the cars were pulling out of the station. An empty compartment was not hard to find.

I was feeling more anxious and nervous than I could ever recall in my life. I attempted to calm my nerves by looking out the window but the slowly passing landscape only served to remind me that each passing moment could be my friend's last.

"Mr. Holmes." The young Inspector began tentatively. "It takes time to plan and commit murder, especially one that must look accidental. I'm sure the doctor is still safe and sound."

This new Inspector must have some large amount of potential if he could see past my stony façade to the anxiety I'd thought I'd been hiding well.

"I'm sure." I answered, though feeling just the opposite. I pulled my hat over my eyes and closed them, shutting off any future opportunity for the Inspector to try to comfort me. As if I needed comforting.

I used the excessive time on my hands to formulate a plan for Watson's rescue. They would certainly be _in_ the club by the time we arrived in Bournemouth, if not in the process of….

No, we would be there before then.

The rest of the train ride was spent in silence, though I observed on numerous occasions Inspector Merivale opening his mouth to speak, then shutting it again.

We did not stay long at the small station in Dorset; rather I grabbed Merivale and bustled him to the nearest cab, where I paid him a very large sum for a quick ride to Bournemouth.

The Dorset Club was a joint gentleman's and sporting club, where shooting was especially popular because of the proficiency of one Calvin Pyre. An official-looking doorman greeted us at the double doors. He questioned us briefly about our intentions but I was able to quickly convince him we were there to see Pyre perform for us. The doorman led us into the main room, offering drink and hors d'oeuvre, both of which I politely refused, insisting that we didn't want to be late for 'Mr. Pyre's fine shooting exhibition'. He pointed us to a door in the back of the room.

I attracted some stares rushing across the room in the manner I did, but I daresay it did not matter much to me in the current situation.

A second attendant was staintioned at the door. He held up a hand as I approached, declaring, "Mr. Pyre has requested no one visit the rang; he is practicing privately."

All the more reason for me to be out there- I pushed aside the attendant an rushed out the door. I heard Merivale muttering some excuse about "police business" behind me.

There was a large shooting range out back, a wide-open expanse of grass with an awning on one side and several wooden targets on the other. A single figure that I imagined to be Pyre was standing at the end of the awning loading a gun. He appeared not to see the Inspector or me come outside. I searched the area around him- where was Watson?

Merivale tapped my shoulder, pointing silently to the wooden target across the field from Pyre. A figure was slumped against it. My trained eyes picked out Watson's outline despite the distance.

I didn't wait for an indication of what Pyre was about to do, rather took off at a sprint towards the end of the awning. He had finished loading his gun and was raising it up, pointing directly at the prostrate from of my friend.

I vividly saw Pyre cock his gun, tighten his finger- then I hit him in a flying tackle. I heard the crack of a gunshot and the next instant we hit the ground. Pyre was confused and dazed from my sudden appearance and assault. It didn't take long to render him unconscious with a few well-placed and furious blows. I jerked my head in the direction of the target.

Merivale was there, bending over Watson, who lay beneath the splintered target and, to my horror, covered in blood. My innards twisted wildly, and I felt a terrible breathlessness in my lungs. I had gotten there on time, this couldn't have happened.

A crowd of club patrons had gathered at the doorway and its immediate vicinity, and seeing their precious master marksman involved in a scandal, they began to argue and shout. The noise was oddly distant.

I stumbled across the field to where Merivale was hunched over, his hands moving quickly at Watson's head. He looked up as I squatted down beside them.

"The bullet didn't hit him."

I cannot express the amount of relief I felt at these words. My legs seemed to fail me and I plopped down on the grass.

"Pyre hit the target; it splintered and some of the wood cut his head. I don't think it's serious-"

"Let me see."

I examined Watson's head, feeling slightly sick and light-headed. He was unconscious, but I was convinced that he had been so before the splinters had hit him. There was an awful lot of blood, and though I knew that head wounds often bled a lot it was still disconcerting. I removed my jacket and ripped off a sleeve, creating a makeshift bandage to stem the bleeding. There were a few worrisome splinters embedded in my dear friend's skin, but I thought it better that he didn't bleed to death and so wrapped the sleeve around his head.

Inspector Merivale took over from that point, though I insisted on keeping Watson with me the whole time. Assistance was called in to secure Pyre and give Watson adequate medical attention, a process that I meticulously supervised. After much confusion and a lot of explaining done on Merivale's part, we three were finally in a cab back to the train station in Dorset.

Watson was still blissfully unaware of the world; I suspected he had been given chloroform or the like.

"Don't worry about the formalities, Mr. Holmes," Merivale interjected into my thoughts, "I'll find something to tell Bradstreet and the Superintendent."

I looked at the Inspector in rare admiration. "Thank you, Inspector Merivale." I replied, shaking his hand.

I leant back in the seat, putting my arm through Watson's to keep him from sliding off the seat and daring the Inspector to say anything about it.

A/N: Thanks very much to Cryptix for beta-ing and helping me A LOT with the plot.

*Bournemouth is about 7 minutes away from Boscombe!


End file.
